Then Joaquin came to it—the shot that told the story.
Hawke stood with his boots planted firmly in the black, sunglasses in hand, glaring at the hundred-foot-tall wall of fire as it raced toward the backburn, as if trying to put out the blaze through force of will alone.
The exposure was perfect. The contrast in colors—the yellow of his shirt and green of his pants against the black beneath his feet and the orange wall of flame—made it pop. The composition was pretty solid, too.
It was his pick for the front page—so far.
“Great shot.”
Joaquin looked up from the camera to find Silver looking over his shoulder. “Thanks.”
Silver kept his voice low. “So, you’re friends with Gabe Rossiter?”
Joaquin nodded. “Good friends.”
“Is he as crazy as he seems when it comes to the climbing shit?”
Joaquin couldn’t help but smile. “Crazier.”
“I believe it.”
Now it was Joaquin’s turn to ask a question. “Do you have family in town, people trying to evacuate while you’re up here?”
Silver’s brows drew together in a frown. “A girlfriend—or maybe she’s not my girlfriend. Hell, I don’t know. It’s complicated. Her house is gone. I want to call her to see how she’s doing and make sure she’s safe, but I left my phone at the firehouse.”
Joaquin held out his. “You can borrow mine.”
“Thanks, man.” Silver took the phone, typed in a number, left a short message. “She didn’t answer.”
“She probably didn’t recognize the number.”
“Yeah.” But there was worry on Silver’s face.
What a terrible thing to be split between duty and the desire to protect loved ones.
In the front passenger seat, Hawke was speaking to someone with his hand mic.
“He’s talking with the super of the hotshot crew,” Silver explained. “They’re meeting us at Ski Scarlet.”
Any word about the kids or Taylor?
Joaquin wanted to ask but couldn’t. He didn’t want to distract anyone, least of all Hawke, who had the weight of the world on his shoulders right now.
They drove up the switchbacks toward the ski resort, the sun dimmed by smoke. The firefighters climbed out, most of them heading toward thermos barrels of water. Joaquin was last, but he followed Hawke toward a group of firefighters standing around a turquoise buggy with the words IHC PINE RIDGE HOTSHOTS painted on the side.
A Native hotshot crew. How cool was that?
Hawke shook hands with the group’s superintendent, Aaron Tall Bull, and the two men got down to details. Joaquin didn’t get all the firefighter jargon, but he did understand the basic discussion. The fire had outflanked the initial backburn, so they were trying to decide where to start again—on the ridge just above Scarlet Springs or in the canyon below it. The ridge would be riskier for firefighters, but falling back to the canyon below town meant letting Scarlet Springs burn.
Hawke turned away from the conversation, spoke into his hand mic. “Eight-sixty-five, Scarlet Command, go ahead.”
Eight-sixty-five.
Those were the call numbers of the person Hawke had spoken to when he’d gotten the news about the kids’ camp.
“Are you certain?” The man’s expression gave away nothing, but his jaw tightened. “Who stayed behind?”
Hawke squeezed his eyes shut, breath leaving his lungs in a tight exhale. “Any word on Taylor? Okay. Eight-sixty-five, copy.”